


Touch

by kesterstjohn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy setting, First Kiss, Loyalty, M/M, Pining, Politics, pseudo-historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 19:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11904981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesterstjohn/pseuds/kesterstjohn
Summary: By every law of the empire, Ippolit was utterly out of bounds.And yet Ippolit had touched him the other night. Broken all protocol and risked arrest and imprisonment, just to wipe gold paint from his neck.Was it worth it?Ali wanted to ask, but he was afraid of what the answer might be.





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



It was a shame, everyone agreed, that the Queen’s eldest child had had the temerity to be born male. And while it wasn’t true that there’d been a partial eclipse at the moment of his birth, it was a fact that the palace soothsayer, who’d declared that Her Majesty’s firstborn would be without doubt a daughter, had been executed as soon as Her Illustriousness could give the order.

These whispers and others swirled around the temple, falling from the balconies restricted to the Green and Blue factions, running through the ranks of the Whites and hushing to a halt against the imperious silence of the Reds.

Prince Alistronis looked down at his gloved hands resting on his knees and drew in a breath deep enough to suck the thin veil of silk against his mouth. Quickly he blew at the gossamer fabric, hoping no one had noticed his mistake. The Year of Propriety should have instilled him with better manners. His father, the Consort, would never have made such an error, but then his father was a diplomat and Ali was the firstborn.

This was the first time Ali had been seen in public since he’d completed the Cycle of Wisdom. When his sister Veranta married three years ago, he’d attended the ceremony _in obscura_ , behind a fretwork sandalwood screen that had caused him to sneeze during the exchange of vows. Today, on the occasion of his sister Rhia’s betrothal, more than ever he was conscious of the responsibility that rested with him.

He curled his fingers inside the gloves. Three layers of gloves: the first pair, worn closest to his skin, was made of silk. The second pair was of fine kidskin. The third pair, the pair that caught the eye of the whole congregation, was of netted gold, delicate links meshed in an intricate pattern and studded with tiny diamonds.

The gloves were a necessity as well as symbolic. They were to prevent him from bestowing the Touch upon an unworthy recipient.

A gong sounded, and the assembled masses rose to their feet as red-robed priests processed around the forest of marble columns. Incense billowed, filling the temple with the scent of sandalwood and terebinth. Ali’s nose twitched. To a fanfare of bronze trumpets, Princess Rhia and the Grand Duke of Baluq made their stately way towards the altar, supported by flower maidens and page boys.

The High Priest intoned an opening prayer, and the congregation sat. Ali adjusted the cuff of one golden glove as its weight threatened to slide it from his hand. The action started another wave of murmured comment amongst the nobility surrounding him. Doubtless they all wished, as did the Queen and her Consort and the Council of Elders, that Princess Veranta had been the firstborn.

It was so much simpler when the Crown Princess inherited the gift of the Touch. Healing was a feminine art, despite the Queen graciously granting permission for male physicians to practice. For the past twelve generations of the Royal Family, the firstborns had been female. And then Ali had been born, and tradition was broken.

No one could remember the last time a male had held the Touch. Scholars had consulted dusty tomes, searching for a precedent, but if one existed it had gone unrecorded. The newly appointed palace soothsayer had assured Queen Ereminia that it was quite in order for her firstborn son to possess the Touch. It could only be bestowed once, after all, and with the right instruction, and plenty of regal guidance, Prince Alistronis would know which recipient would benefit most from the Touch.

The Grand Duke went to his knees before the altar. Wincing, he grabbed at a page boy to right himself, almost toppling the lad.

Ali curled his lip. Rhia’s fiancé was a scrofulous old man with a thin mouth, a bald pate, and wattled chins. If there was a list of candidates for the Touch, the Grand Duke was surely at the top. Wars had been fought over the Touch. The riches of nations had been bartered for it. Always, the Touch was dispensed where it would be the most politically sound.

His duty was clear.

The High Priest began reciting the sacred words of the betrothal ceremony in the arcane language of the Red faction. The most important parts of the ritual would be repeated in the common tongue, so while the priest droned on, the congregation relaxed.

Ali let his gaze drift until it came to rest on Ippolit, dressed in the dark green silks that befitted his position as chamberlain and which signalled the identity of his faction.

The more exalted members of the Whites and Blues were clearly uncomfortable at the presence of a mere fifth ranker in their midst. Worse, Ippolit had his face uncovered, his expression visible for anyone to see. It was perfectly permissible, of course—the Grand Duke and his retinue, as well as Veranta’s husband, Thanneus, Crown Prince of Chypra, and his courtiers, had all chosen not to wear veils. But they were foreigners; such behaviour was to be expected.

As a male of the minor aristocracy, Ippolit was entitled to wear a veil in public. His decision not to do so made him look like a commoner, which was perhaps the point. Ippolit had never stood on ceremony, whereas Ali’s life over the past five years had been steeped in protocol.

Whatever the reason for the absence of the veil, Ali was glad of it. In this holiest of places, Ippolit was like a shaft of sunlight. Not even the fug of incense could dim his looks, so startling amongst the rows of veiled noblemen. His hair was as black as the caulked hulls of the sea-going ships in Grand Harbour, worn long so it curled over the high collar of his chamberlain’s robes. His face, though sharp-featured, gentled frequently with smiles. His body, athletic and strong, would be put to better use as a member of the Queen’s elite regiment rather than the tasks of a simple chamberlain.

Ali lifted his chin, staring across the marble floor that separated them. He wanted Ippolit to look at him. When at last their gazes met and held, Ali felt his breathing quicken.

A bell chimed. The congregation fell silent and attended once more. The ritual words of betrothal were spoken between Rhia and the Grand Duke, then the Cup of Prosperity was brought out upon a crimson cushion, and an acolyte filled it to the brim with deep red Yrian wine.

The Queen and her offspring were considered too exalted to actually handle the cup themselves, and so it was the Consort who took the goblet from the High Priest. Ali’s father pinned aside his veil and took the first sip, re-enacting an ancient tradition in which the consort would taste the queen’s cup for poison. The Crown Prince of Chypra was next, drinking then holding the goblet for Princess Veranta, then the Grand Duke did the same for Princess Rhia.

As the cup was handed back to the acolyte, Ali caught Rhia’s gaze. She rolled her eyes towards her fiancé and grimaced. Ali stifled a smile. His poor sister! The best he could do for her was to withhold the Touch and let her bridegroom rot, making her a wealthy young widow.

The cup came to him, carried by Ippolit, who had abandoned his place amongst the Whites and Blues to do his duty. Since Ali was as yet unmarried, it was acceptable for him to nominate someone to be his cup-bearer. From one of the oldest Fanariot families, the original settlers of the capital, Ippolit’s impeccable lineage had rendered him suitable to be Ali’s playmate when they were younger and to serve as his personal secretary now.

“Your Highness,” Ippolit whispered as he brushed aside the veil and held the cup to Ali’s lips, “I believe the vintage reflects your mother’s opinion of the bridegroom.”

Ali took a sip. The wine was sour, lacked body, and was instantly forgettable.

The cup was passed on, his mouth dabbed clean by Ippolit with a square of embroidered linen, but the smile remained on Ali’s face.

*

Katal, his Master of the Wardrobe, released the bindings holding the ceremonial cap in place. Ali let out a relieved breath and tousled his dark red hair, coaxing life back into it. His mirror showed him a disgruntled young man with a long nose and stubborn chin inherited from his mother the Queen. In everything else, he resembled his father, who’d been chosen as Consort purely for his looks.

As if by rote, all of the court poets had declared Ali beautiful, but in his opinion it was Veranta who was the beauty of the family. Rhia, too; though his youngest sister had a blonde loveliness and a curvaceous figure that would be wasted on the Grand Duke of Baluq.

Ali scowled at his reflection and sat forward so Katal could unlace the formal robes at the back. A member of the Blue faction, Katal had been in his service since he’d begun the Cycle of Wisdom. The man was not much of a confidant, but never shied from expressing an opinion, usually negative. That was all for the best, though. The Queen did not believe in surrounding her children with sycophants.

“Waste of silk, this,” Katal muttered as he brushed the creases from the robe. “You can’t wear it again or it’ll bring bad luck to Princess Rhia’s future marriage. What’ll become of it now? Burn it, like Her Majesty does with her finery?”

It was too late in the evening to deal with surly opinions. Ali pulled off his undershirt and shrugged into a casual robe, then sat again in front of the dressing table. “The Queen does not burn her gowns.” This was a common belief amongst the lower classes; Katal should know better, since he worked in the palace. “Outfits that cannot be worn again are unstitched, taken apart, and made up into new garments for the upper servants.”

Katal owned three such outfits made from Ali’s cast-offs, but naturally the man chose to ignore that. He continued to mumble as he tidied away, opening chests so that the lids thudded against the walls and banging shut wardrobe doors.

It looked as though Ali would have to remove the ceremonial kohl and half-gilding by himself. He’d taken off his golden gloves after the betrothal dinner, and now he stripped off the kidskin gloves. The silk gloves never came off, not even when he bathed. A fresh pair was left for him, and servants were forbidden to enter his bathing chamber until he’d donned the new gloves.

He moistened a ball of wadded cotton in lavender-scented cream and began to wipe off the make-up. Soon the cotton was stained black and gold. He took another ball, working quickly. His thoughts drifted. Rhia would be going through the same ritual, though her maids were kinder and more sympathetic than Katal. She’d played her part to perfection at dinner, appearing restrained and elegant and not at all perturbed when her fiancé groped a serving girl and fell asleep in the honey pudding.

His sister deserved a better husband than that drunken buffoon. The marriage was still some months away, by their mother’s decree. Hopefully a more compatible suitor could be found in the meantime. Ali would pray for it, and sacrifice a ram to the Goddess of Fortune tomorrow.

A discreet tap at the door chased away his reverie. Ali sat up. The nightingale floor outside his room had remained silent, which could mean only one thing. His heart beating a little faster, he called, “Enter.”

Ippolit came into the room and bowed. “Prince Alistronis.”

“Pol!” Ali started out of his chair and grasped his friend impulsively by the elbows. When Katal tutted in disapproval, he let go and leaned against the dressing table. “What were you doing, attending the betrothal without a veil? Your face, Pol—I could see it!” As could everyone else in the temple, but that went without saying.

“I didn’t think the temple counted as ‘in public’, so I went without.” Ippolit settled onto the cushions in his favourite place, the window seat with a view through the screen of Ali’s private courtyard garden. At this time of night there wouldn’t be much to see beyond lantern-light flickering over the ponds and rivulets, but the sound of the water and the gentle coo of doves at roost were soothing.

“Typical Green, does what he likes,” Katal muttered. “Everyone knows temples are public spaces.”

“Ah,” Ippolit had a gleam in his eye, “but according to _Lex Tyrhenne_ , article four, clause thirty-two, when the temple is used for celebrating the rites of a betrothal or a marriage, it may be considered a private space accessible only to the Royal Family, the attending priests, and invited guests. Therefore…”

“You were quite within your rights to dispense with your veil,” Ali finished for him, then turned to the glowering Master of the Wardrobe. “Katal, would you fetch a bottle of wine, please? Make sure it’s the Rhoxian,” he added as the servant banged out of the door and squeaked his way across the floor outside.

Ippolit was still dressed in his state robes. By the glow of candlelight, the figured silk looked more black than green, like dark water. Then Ippolit eased off his boots and swung his bare feet up onto the cushions, and rested his head on the carved screen. In silence he smiled, weariness evident in the set of his shoulders. His gaze wandered to Ali, and at length lost some of its distraction, becoming instead focused and intense.

At the same time, Ali became aware of his dishabille. It really was improper to entertain a visitor in nothing more than a dressing gown and a pair of loose silk trousers. He felt Ippolit’s attention scorch his bare chest and hurriedly belted his robe. “I haven’t had the opportunity to train in the gymnasium for a while.”

“Ah. No. Right.” Obviously aware that he’d been caught in judgement, Ippolit blushed. “It doesn’t matter. You probably don’t have time to train as often as when we were boys. Your duties now are more important.”

“Are they?” Ali’s tone was wistful. “I know more than anyone else about the Legislation of the Ten and the Codices of the Thalsians, but in truth, I wonder if any of it is really necessary.”

“Yes, if you meet a Thalsian.”

He threw a soft leather slipper at his friend. “Very funny. I doubt any Thalsians still exist. They probably all expired of boredom while compiling one of their interminable lists of protocol. That’s why Book Eighty-Nine is incomplete.”

Ippolit chuckled and swung one tanned foot back and forth. “When I was in my final year as a cadet, there was a rumour that a copy of Book Ninety was discovered in a private library on Meklos.” He paused for effect, eyes gleaming. “I was one of the team sent to extract it.”

Ali hadn’t heard this story before. He sat on the end of the bed closest to Ippolit. “And did you?”

“It wasn’t Book Ninety that we found, but something more, uh, scurrilous.” Dark eyebrows lifted; Ippolit’s smile became a grin. “Our commander confiscated it before our innocent minds could be despoiled. Luckily Stev has a good memory and he drew what he’d seen. Unfortunately he hasn’t got an artistic bone in his body, so we ended up with what could best be described as a series of pornographic stick-figures.”

Ali laughed. “But if you had found Book Ninety…”

“Honestly?” Ippolit met his gaze. “I’d have thrown it into the sea, so you didn’t have to spend another year studying.”

Another year studying would have meant another year apart. Uncertain how to respond, Ali lowered his head and smoothed the silk of his gloves.

“Anyway. I didn’t come here to talk about that.” A cushion went tumbling as Ippolit shifted position, his feet on the floor now, the long drape of his sleeves rolled up to display forearms corded with muscle. He leaned closer, his voice dropping in volume. “Your Highness, I’ve been hearing things, both within the gates of Fanar and throughout the rest of the city. The Whites are seeking support from amongst the Reds.”

Ali frowned and picked up the cushion, holding it on his lap. “For what? The enmity between those factions is well known. It’s said that a Red will take a detour of a dozen miles to avoid crossing the path of a White.”

“I believe the origin of that proverb lies in the fondness of the Reds for making convoluted legislation.” Ippolit smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My prince, I would not bring this news to you unless I thought it was important. Alliances are being made, and stranger bedfellows you never did see. Lhakon of the Whites is said to have offered marriage to Lady Desdia of the Reds, but neither the lady’s beauty nor Lhakon’s wealth lie behind the match.

“It is said,” he was whispering now, fast and urgent, “that a senior member of the Whites is calling in favours, cementing old agreements and forging new ties. But I don’t know the identity of this person, and I don’t know why he or she is acting in this way. But one thing I do know, Your Highness—this can’t be good.” 

Ali squashed the cushion between his hands. The Whites had always been the most vocal in their loyalty to the Queen. The faction boasted of its proud heritage as devoted subjects to the Crown back over many generations. Most of the important posts at court were held by Whites, and only a few families held lower than fourth rank. And yet…

“Loyalty does not always last forever.” Ali remembered the account in the Codices that detailed an attempt to overthrow Queen Matsarta some four hundred years ago. The Greens had been punished, but the Prime Minister of the time, a member of the Blues, had called for a full enquiry. He’d believed that the Greens had been manipulated into taking the blame, and that the Whites were behind the attempted coup. But then a war broke out on the southern border, a new trade route was discovered, and then the Prime Minister was executed for embezzlement, and the enquiry was forgotten.

Four hundred years was a long time. The factions of today were very different. Ali couldn’t imagine any of the courtiers bestirring themselves enough to plan a coup. They were an indolent lot, interested more in gambling and luxury than in the hard work of ruling an empire. But he trusted Ippolit. If Ippolit said something was rotten, Ali believed him.

“There’s always something underhand going on.” Politics was the lifeblood of the city, but as a prince he was forbidden to involve himself. His role, quite aside from his responsibility as bearer of the Touch, was one of protocol. Steeped in etiquette and ceremony, he was a figurehead rather than an active participant in the workings of the state.

Ali punched shape back into the cushion and returned it to the window seat. He wished he wasn’t so entangled by duty. If only he could do more! But… Wait. Perhaps he _could_ do more. Not directly—that would be foolhardy—but perhaps through Ippolit...

He stopped pacing and swung around. “Pol, would you look into this further for me? You can go to places I cannot, and you know people I can never know. If there’s a plot, even the germ of a plot, I want to know about it. But be careful. And discreet.”

“What will you do?”

The question gave him pause. He knew he should go to his mother the Queen, or at least the head of the Seven, her secret service. But perhaps they would not believe the word of a prince, even if he was the firstborn.

“I will go to my father,” he said, deciding. “The Consort is gifted in diplomacy. Probably this plot is nothing more than the ramblings of envious men and ambitious women. Probably it will fizzle out into nothing, or it will reveal itself as yet another power struggle between the Reds and Whites over some inane court appointment or the selection of provincial governor. My father is good at dealing with these matters; he has been doing so for the entirety of my mother’s reign. In fact,” he said as a thought occurred to him, “he probably knows about the plot already.”

“Probably,” Ippolit echoed, but he looked troubled.

“But it is better to be safe than sorry,” Ali concluded. “And so I hope you will bring me as much intelligence as you can muster, but take care, because—”

The squeak-squeal of the nightingale floor alerted them to Katal’s return long before the door opened. They shared a smile at the uneven rhythm of the creaks.

“I believe Katal is trying to copy the way you place your feet,” Ali remarked. “Alas, he has not your skill, my friend.”

Ippolit grinned. “Patience,” he said. “That’s how I learned.”

Katal came in, complaining about how long it had taken him to find a bottle of Rhoxian, and how the Master of the Wines had sent him to the lowest and darkest cellar, a place infested with spiders and possibly also bats, and how he had been afraid for his life, and if he was asked to go into the cellars again he would resign his post immediately.

“Thank you,” Ali said when the litany came to an end. He hadn’t the heart to point out that Katal had brought only one glass. But perhaps that had been deliberate.

He broke the seal, eased the cork from the bottle, and, despite Katal’s censorious clucking, poured the rich red wine and offered the glass to Ippolit.

Holding Ali’s gaze, Ippolit drank. 

A flutter rose inside him. Ali looked at Ippolit’s lips, damp with wine. He felt clumsy when he accepted back the glass.

Katal bustled forward, shaking out a square of clean linen. He would have wiped the rim of the glass if he could, but Ali drank first, his lips touching the place where Ippolit’s mouth had been. The bouquet was dark and complex, spiced cherry and blackcurrant, gentle on the tongue and warm in his belly. He drained the glass and set it down to pour another.

“Drinking this late at night causes restless sleep,” Katal opined, though from the looks he darted at the bottle, he coveted the Rhoxian for himself.

Ignoring the advice, Ali asked Katal to check if his bath was ready. Defeated for the moment, the servant took himself off into the adjoining chamber, mumbling beneath his breath.

“Highness.” Ippolit came closer, his expression intent. He reached out, hand hovering between them for a heartbeat. “You have… Just here… A smudge.”

Ali stood motionless, barely able to breathe, as Ippolit touched his jaw. He felt the glide of Ippolit’s thumb over his skin, rubbing at the gold paint. His face burned, prickles of awareness spreading through his body right down to his toes. He fixed his eyes on Ippolit’s face. His friend was frowning in concentration, making a soft sound low in his throat as he smoothed his thumb again and again over Ali’s jaw and down his neck.

“It isn’t…” Ippolit murmured, but seemed to forget what he was saying. His attention appeared to be riveted on the pulse thrumming in Ali’s throat. “It’s…” Ippolit’s focus shifted to Ali’s mouth, “I need…”

“Yes?” Ali’s voice was as insubstantial as the night-breeze.

“This.” Ippolit reached past him to the dressing table and picked up a cotton ball. He moistened it in the wine, then stroked it across Ali’s face, wiping away the paint.

Fifty-year-old Rhoxian dribbled down his neck.

Ippolit laughed softly. He chased the droplets with his fingertips, then licked them.

Heat burned through Ali. He ached, absolutely _ached_. The bed was but a few short steps away. If only— But he was a prince. It was improper. But oh, how he longed to be improper with Ippolit…

They were standing very close. Close enough for Ali to notice the amber flecks in Ippolit’s eyes. Close enough to feel the fan of warm breath scented with wine. Ippolit continued to move the damp cotton ball over his skin in tiny circular motions. Such a small touch, barely anything, and yet Ali felt it hum through him like the resonance of a bell.

With an effort, he lifted a hand. “That’s…” _enough_ , he wanted to say, but it wasn’t true.

Smiling, Ippolit surrendered the cotton ball, but he didn’t move away.

The door to the bathing chamber opened. Katal stood there, agog for a moment, before declaring, “Persons of fifth rank and below are not permitted to touch any member of the royal family!”

The disdainful tone dragged them back to their senses.

Ippolit stepped back smartly. He collected his boots from beneath the window and bowed. “With your permission, Your Highness, I will withdraw.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Chamberlain.” Ali dismissed him with a flick of his fingers, waiting for the door to close before he faced his Master of the Wardrobe.

“You misunderstood what you saw.” He gave Katal his haughtiest look. “Chamberlain Ippolit didn’t touch me. Except with this.” He tossed the cotton ball onto the dressing table and stalked into the bathing room.

The door clicked shut behind him. He could still feel the caress of Ippolit’s thumb against his face.

*

An early morning haze hung over the city, filtering the beams of the sun to touch the gilded ornaments on domes and towers. The far side of the Straits was hidden by the sea-fret; even the great bridge slung between the two shores seemed to disappear halfway across the water. The sounds of commerce were muffled, and the air rang only with the delicate music of songbirds.

Ali pulled his morning robe closer. Veranta’s rooftop breakfast kiosk was a little chilly, but it boasted one of the best views in the palace. Not only could they enjoy the vista of the city, but from here they could also see the eight courtyards that comprised the palace. The Gate of Supplication was already open, and guards were checking the credentials of those who’d come to seek meetings with representatives of the Council. Elsewhere, a squad of guardsman practiced their drills, and servants hastened back and forth carrying documents and laden trays. Roars, bugling, and screeches greeted the keepers of the Royal Menagerie.

“It’s been so long since we breakfasted together, brother. I’m ashamed to say I’ve forgotten what you prefer, so I asked for a little of everything.” Veranta smiled at him from the other side of a table covered in dainty morsels: Bowls of yoghurt topped with chopped pistachios, a mound of glistening pomegranate seeds, chunks of melon and slices of citrus; fresh-baked pastries and breads, including the cardamom buns he so loved; platters of meat, finely cut.

Ali reached for a cardamom bun and split it, inhaling the warm scent. “I’m sure I’ll do justice to your efforts, Vee.”

She smiled again, but it was strained. Something was wrong. Something she had obviously felt unable to take to their mother the Queen, else she wouldn’t have invited him here. Ali slathered butter and apricot jam over the halves of the bun, waiting for Veranta to speak.

A breeze blew her red-gold hair across her face. She brushed the strands away with a show of impatience and attended to her breakfast for a while. Maidservants stood at a discreet distance beside the fishpond set into the marble roof terrace.

Curious, Ali looked at his sister. She was in the blessed state of impending motherhood for the second time, but he doubted that was causing her concern. Unlike her first pregnancy, when she’d come to him in a panic shortly before the baby was due and begged him to use the Touch on her to ensure a safe birth, she seemed much more relaxed about this second infant.

They drank mint tea. When a maid came forward to refill their glasses, Ali waved her away and poured the drinks himself.

Veranta rested the tall glass against her cheek as if to absorb some of the tea’s warmth. Finally she said, “There have been rumours of alliances between the Red and White factions.”

“I know.”

“How did— Ah, your chamberlain.” She smiled again. “Ippolit knows everything. He takes good care of you, brother.”

Ali squirmed a little. “Yes, he does. He also,” turning back to the topic at hand, “believes someone placed high within the Whites is organising these alliances for their own purpose.”

“Yes.” She leaned back in her chair and looked out across the rooftops of the city. Bells clanged in the distance, summoning workers to the shipyards and the faithful to morning service. A flock of doves took off and flew in an arc over the palace.

“I think it’s a prelude to something larger,” Veranta said slowly, as if feeling her way. “The Reds and Whites have been at loggerheads for centuries, even if these days they’ve buried their enmity beneath a façade of _noblesse oblige_. Wounds that deep don’t heal so quickly. If those factions are being manipulated, I believe a third party is behind it. But who? The Greens, the Blues…?”

“Not the Greens.”

She gave him a coy look. “How quickly you jump to the defence of Ippolit’s faction! But he is a member of the Fanariots. They ruled here long before our family, and though they surrendered any claims to the throne and swore an oath to us, who knows what might happen if there was to be a coup?”

“Ippolit would never betray me.” Ali’s voice was heated. Perhaps too heated. He took a sip of mint tea to cool down. “The Fanariots would be a convenient target. It’s too obvious. It couldn’t be them.”

His sister sighed. “Maybe we shouldn’t focus too much on that. I’m more concerned about what’ll happen when the alliances between Red and White break down. There’ll be a power struggle, and that’s what I fear most. As soon as the balance of power is disturbed, it creates a vacuum… and where there’s an absence of power, there’ll be those who seek to take control.”

He frowned. “Is there someone particular you have in mind?”

“One of my husband’s men, the Count of Nikotoli. He’s utterly gorgeous but has the mind of a snake.”

At her tone, Ali looked up. “Has he offended you?”

“Oh, bless you.” She laughed, a genuine sound. “Not like that, anyway. No, there’s something… He makes me uneasy. He’s Thanneus’s closest friend, and yet I cannot like him.” Veranta’s expression darkened. “Quite aside from his slimy personality, he has a veritable navy of ships. He claims they’re merchantmen, but…”

When she trailed off, pensively biting her lip, Ali said in encouragement, “Didn’t you tour the coast of Chypra when you took your son to be invested by his grandparents the King and Queen?”

“Yes. There were celebratory fetes in every town and village. I had a good look at the ports and harbours, and noted down their defensive capabilities.” She gave a faint smile. “Nikotoli personally showed me around his shipyards. Later, I persuaded Thanneus to take me sailing around the Sanctuary Islands. I saw Nikotoli’s fleet at anchor.”

Ali started on a second bun. Someone had to keep up the pretence of eating breakfast.

Following his example, Veranta picked at some fruit. “Well, I know something about ships. It’s in our blood,” she waved towards Grand Harbour and the glittering straits, “and I know merchantmen aren’t built low to the water with stern decks mounted with swivel-cannon. In addition, Nikotoli’s boats are rigged like warships.” She rested a hand over the swell of her stomach. “Because they _are_ warships. I’d bet the life of my unborn child on it.”

His appetite gone, Ali sat back. “What do you want me to do?”

She paused in the act of lifting her tea, apparently startled by the question. “What _can_ you do? You’re only a prince.” A moment later her expression softened into something like sympathy and she reached across to pat his hand. “Oh, Ali. I know you can’t do anything. You’re not permitted. If only you could solve all our problems with the application of the correct protocol! Maybe it worked in the days of the Thalsians, but now… I just wanted a sounding-board, I suppose.”

“Have you spoken to your husband about this?”

“Only obliquely. The man is his best friend, and Thanneus can see no wrong in him. But…” Veranta looked torn. “We should go to the Seven, shouldn’t we? Or perhaps to our mother. But what if I’m allowing dislike to colour my opinions? A wrongful accusation would cause a diplomatic incident. It might even cause war.”

Ippolit’s findings had been bad enough, but added to his sister’s suspicions, the different threads were coming together to make an uneven cloth of ugly colour. “We need more information,” Ali said. “More evidence. Solid proof, rather than rumour.”

“How?”

“I’ll find a way.”

Veranta flashed a delighted smile, the kind she used to give him when they were children and he rescued her favourite doll from the fishpond.

He basked in her admiration, and as they returned to their breakfast with renewed enthusiasm, he wondered how to proceed. Ippolit was already gathering intelligence for him. Perhaps he could ask his friend to investigate any potential links between the Whites and the Count of Nikotoli. Ali knew the count lived in a villa on the southern shore; maybe Ippolit could keep watch there and note down any dubious visitors… 

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt and a spoonful of yoghurt plopped back into its bowl as his gaze focused on the object of his musings. Down below in the Court of Roses, dressed casually—too casually, in Ali’s opinion—shirt unlaced at the neck to show off a distracting amount of tanned chest, Ippolit was talking to a captain in the Queen’s regiment.

Maybe he was pumping the captain for information. Or maybe, Ali thought sourly as Ippolit threw back his head and laughed at some soldierly witticism, the two of them were _flirting_.

A hot rush of jealousy scalded his throat and twisted his stomach. He squashed the emotion, looking away.

He and Ippolit were friends, that was all. And if his feelings ran deeper, well, it was destined to come to nothing. The touches they’d shared when they were younger had been innocent, their kisses clumsy. Duty had separated them before anything serious could develop, Ali to begin the proscribed Cycle of Wisdom to enhance the power of the Touch, and Ippolit to cadet school. When they were reunited five years later, Ippolit, now even more handsome, had been enrolled into the fifth rank and appointed Ali’s chamberlain.

By every law of the empire, Ippolit was utterly out of bounds.

And yet Ippolit had touched him the other night. Broken all protocol and risked arrest and imprisonment, just to wipe gold paint from his neck.

 _Was it worth it?_ Ali wanted to ask, but he was afraid of what the answer might be.

*

Dressed in the most sombre green silks he could find, with gloves to match, Ali opened the door of his chambers and crossed the nightingale floor, following the pattern of steps Ippolit had taught him long ago. Taking the main stairs, he went down into his private courtyard and loitered there a while. A full moon tracked through the sky, enabling him to find his path over bridges and across stepping stones to the far side of the garden. Another pause, just to be certain that none of the guards were watching, and then he ducked behind a tangle of undergrowth.

He felt his way by touch, one hand on the old, crumbling wall, until he came to the door. It took a moment of fumbling to find the keyhole, and it seemed an age to fit the key into the lock, but finally, with a low grating sound, the key turned and the door swung open.

Ali took a breath to quieten his excited nerves. The only thing that lay between him and the city was the Royal Menagerie. Pushing the door to behind him, he ventured past cages full of sleeping beasts and birds. A Great Snow Owl was awake, perched on a tree stump within its enclosure. It stared at him with its huge yellow eyes, then uttered a haunting _hoo-hoo-hroo_.

The Goddess of Fortune sometimes spoke her will through birds. Ali decided to take the owl’s cry as a favourable sign. Picking up his skirts, he ran across a swathe of lawn. The guard-peacocks recognised him and remained silent. Soon he reached the outer wall of the palace, where it was the work of mere moments to climb a tree and roll over the top.

He landed on the street outside with a thud. Straightening, he put his robes in order and pinned an orange veil across his face. He’d found the veil shoved behind a cushion in the receiving room of the Foreign Minister. It seemed appropriate to be wearing it now, on his self-imposed mission to uncover the intentions of the Count of Nikotoli.

He set off at a brisk pace, and within a few minutes he was entering the heart of the city. Despite the hour, the streets were thronging with people. Lanterns above doorways lit the cobbled roads. At a crossway, fire-dancers from Nwb vied with Sinta fortune-tellers for the crowd’s coins. A group of chattering, laughing, gaily-dressed women linked arm in arm tottered past on high cork heels. Men gawped after them, while wives pursed their lips in disapproval.

Ali stuck to the shadows at first, checking behind him at intervals until he was certain he hadn’t been followed. This was only the third time he’d slipped out of the palace alone; the first time, he’d almost been caught by his own honour guard. He liked to think he was better at managing his escape now.

Before, he’d gone into the city incognito for the chance to experience a little freedom. But tonight he had a better reason. Tonight, he was determined to discover at least one more link in the plot between the Reds and Whites.

The crowds thickened as he passed through the night market. From all sides he was assailed by noise and colour and smells. Conversations in a dozen different languages flowed by him. Stalls offered for sale shoes and raiment of every shade and hue, spinning tops and wooden horses, beaded necklaces and kitchen utensils. A little further on were the food stands, selling flatbreads topped with spiced ground lamb, pies stuffed with sharp-flavoured cheese, kebabs of meat and vegetables and fruit, and cups of waxed paper filled with refreshing sherbet.

Commoners brushed shoulders with the nobility, foreigners with locals. Factions mingled with none of the usual rivalry—that would come later, after the races.

Ali stepped aside to let a litter go by. A noblewoman reclined on top, borne along by her servants. Her veiled husband strolled beside her, wafting a fan to keep her cool. Another lady, unmarried and thus hidden behind the gauzy curtains of her conveyance, was followed by a knot of suitors attempting to win her favour by reciting terrible poetry one after another.

The latter drew good-natured laughter from the crowd. Ali joined in, slowly coming to realise that he was garnering some attention himself. A group of unveiled commoners were looking his way with impertinent expressions and cheeky grins.

Ali checked he hadn’t trodden in anything. Whisking his robe about him, he put his nose in the air. One of the commoners wolf-whistled. Now he was really confused. Was his outfit at fault? He’d borrowed it without asking from Ippolit’s room, so it couldn’t be that. Maybe it was his gait. He was walking too quickly, or moving too gracefully, or…

Abandoning the problem, he focused instead on the hippodrome up ahead. A vast oval arena, it seated forty thousand people and hosted a series of horse and chariot races throughout the year. Ali had only watched the races from within the royal box before. Unlike the morning races, which were the preserve of the Queen, the night races were presided over by governors newly returned from the provinces. They were said to be a hotbed of scandal and gossip. If ever there was a place that dealt in the information he sought, it was the hippodrome.

He joined the masses on the steps. For a while he ignored the jostling, thinking it was simply part of being amongst such a large crowd, but then he felt a hand slide across his bottom. Another hand, or perhaps the same one, gave him a pinch. Ali whirled around, orange veil fluttering, but the people behind him wore frosty looks.

A couple of men stood nearby, laughing. A coin sailed through the air, almost hitting Ali on the head. It struck the shoulder of a woman in front and bounced off. Ali glimpsed the coin, a clipped copper piece, before the crowd shuffled forward and it vanished underfoot.

Unease churned through him. There were too many people here. None of his previous forays had taken him anywhere quite so crowded. The excitement had worn off, but his determination remained. He was going to the races, no matter what, and if—

A strong, masculine arm draped itself around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Darling. There you are.”

Ali had stiffened, ready to fight back, when he recognised the combination of jasmine and bergamot, the scent Ippolit always wore. The body pressed against him was familiar, too, and he relaxed, feeling rather more weak-kneed than the situation merited. “Pol!”

“At your command.” Ippolit was unveiled and dressed in commoner’s clothes. A long, dark green coat trimmed with black leather worn over a soft linen shirt laced at the throat. Black boots and a knife-belt, and in between, a pair of breeches that clung sinfully tight to every interesting muscle and contour.

Ali stared, his mouth going dry.

“Your Highness,” Ippolit’s husky voice tickled its way down his spine, “it would be better in future if you dressed in less publicly exciting garments when you wish to pass amongst the citizens incognito.”

Sputtering in affront, Ali yanked free. “I am dressed respectably! And veiled! How did you know it was me, anyway?”

“Oh, Highness.” The look Ippolit gave him was of pure affection. “I would know you anywhere. Even when you’re dressed like that.”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

Ippolit gave the veil a playful tug. “Only the most specialised of male courtesans wear a veil of this colour.”

Curious, though properly he supposed he should be aghast, Ali stopped in his tracks. “Specialised?”

Grumbling that they were holding up the queue, the crowd split around them and hurried up the staircase into the hippodrome.

“Oh, yes. _Very_ specialised.” Eyes dancing, Ippolit leaned in and whispered a few words.

Ali felt a blush rise. Now he was even more curious. How would one go about performing such an act? It sounded so peculiar. But perhaps with the right man… His gaze went to Ippolit’s smiling face. Perhaps it would be enjoyable then.

Under the guise of straightening his silks, Ippolit slipped a hand beneath Ali’s elbow and drew him close. “May I escort you home?”

“No, I want to watch the races.” Chin up, Ali drew aside the veil a little so Ippolit could see he was determined. “I’ll go alone, if necessary.”

Ippolit looked at him for a moment, then laughed. Tucking Ali’s hand into his arm, he made a sweeping gesture. “Very well. Let’s go inside.”

It took a while to get through the ticket hall. Ippolit paid the entrance fee and snagged a copy of the race card from a tout, and then they headed into the blocks reserved for the Green faction. Unfortunately the only remaining seats were right at the back, up several flights of stairs on a steep incline.

Ali paused for breath halfway up.

“You should place a bet.” Ippolit took a silver piece from the purse inside his coat. “Here. Pick a winner.”

Curling Ippolit’s fingers over the coin, Ali said, “Put it on Green.”

Bets made, at last they found their seats. They were dizzyingly high, and the breeze blowing from the Straits kept making the torches gutter. Ali cast a longing look towards the royal box at the far end of the hippodrome. Cheers rang out as the returning governor of Hevrir waved to the crowd. From this distance, the man was a tiny blob dressed in white.

Trumpets announced the first race. Eight chariots, two from each faction, paraded around the oval track. Ali remained seated when Ippolit got to his feet with the rest of the Greens to cheer on his team and shout insults at the other drivers. Then came a tense moment filled with last-minute betting and excited conversation as to the odds of a favoured driver taking the win. Ali strained his ears but could hear nothing but talk of the races.

An official waved a flag, and the race began. Despite himself, Ali was caught up in the fervour. Hauled upright by Ippolit, he clapped and even managed a cheer when the charioteers sped past their block. How the spectators could differentiate between the drivers from up here was anybody’s guess, but Ippolit seemed to know, as did the other fans around them.

Excitement grew, the Greens becoming rowdy as they scented a victory. Down in the arena, a Red chariot had crashed into a White. The White driver was thrown and dragged along behind his vehicle until he cut himself loose. A wave of boos echoed as a Blue charioteer aimed his horses at the fallen man, swerving away at the last possible moment. The Blues responded with defiant yells.

The other Red chariot was in the lead, Green a close second. Ali grabbed at Ippolit’s arm. Ippolit threw him a grin and hugged him tight. “Come on!” Ali shouted as the chariots went into the final lap.

“Come _on_ , you slugs!” Ippolit bawled.

The whole Green block was up on its collective feet, howling prayers and invocations as the Green chariot edged ever closer to the White. 

Then disaster struck.

The inside horse of the Greens stumbled on a piece of wreckage from the Red chariot. The animal jinked, throwing its bridlemates into confusion. The driver cracked his whip over their heads, trying to bring the team under control, but the horses juddered to a confused stop, plunging and bucking.

With no apparent thought for his safety, the charioteer leapt from the vehicle and caught the head of the inside horse. He pulled it down, talking to it, reassuring it while the other chariots thundered past. Finally he climbed back aboard the chariot and led the team at a trot to the finishing line, dead last.

The bitter groans of despair from the Greens faded into cries of acclamation for the driver’s skill and care towards his horses. Applause ran around the hippodrome, and soon the crowd chanted the driver’s name.

“He did the right thing,” Ippolit said in Ali’s ear. “We lost this race, but Eracul will be lauded for the rest of his career for what he did down there.”

Ali nodded agreement, his heart beating a little too fast for him to speak.

While the track was raked over and fresh sand scattered, the crowd buzzed with conversation, reliving the highlights of the race just gone and speculating on what was to come. Fruitsellers and pastry-maids wandered up and down the stairs, crying their wares, followed by touts offering the latest odds.

“The next few races are for novice drivers,” Ippolit said, producing a small wineskin from his coat pocket. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and passed the skin to Ali. “You haven’t bet on any of them, so it’s a good time for us to talk.”

“Talk?” Ali lifted his veil and took a swig. He coughed at the fiery taste, his eyes watering. “What _is_ this stuff?”

“Apple brandy. The scourge of cadet school.” A broad grin split Ippolit’s face. “You get used to it.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Ali retorted, but upon second acquaintance the liquor was much more palatable.

Leaving the racing form on their seats, they retreated to the very top of the block and stood near one of the tall, flaming torches, more for its warmth than its light. The wind off the straits had turned bitter, and Ali shivered in his borrowed silks.

Ippolit drew him close, slipping an arm around him once more. Ignoring the spectacular view of the moonlit city on one side and the rather desultory action in the arena on the other, he looked at Ali. “Why did you come out tonight?”

“To hear the gossip.”

“That’s what you asked me to do.”

“Yes, and I appreciate all you’ve done, all you’re doing, but sometimes it becomes necessary to take matters into one’s own hands.” Ali turned his head, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes. He pushed it back, then stared down at his hands, wrapped safe in their gloves.

“Highness, it’s dangerous.” The breeze was playing with Ippolit’s hair, ruffling it this way and that until Ali ached to smooth it down. Torchlight danced over his features, softening the line of his nose and the plump swell of his lower lip. “Please, Highness, let me do my job. Or let me take it to the Seven. I cannot bear the thought of you risking yourself.”

Ali dismissed it. “I am not at risk. I am not important enough.”

“That’s not true. You’re a prince, the firstborn.”

“My value lies solely in the Touch.”

“No.” Ippolit shook his head, his grip tightening. “You’re wrong. There’s danger to you all—to you, your sisters, and your parents.”

“What?”

“I was coming to the palace to tell you. I discovered who’s arranging the alliances between the Reds and Whites: Lord Pyrris.”

“Pyrris?” That was a shock. The Lord of the Treasury was second only to the Prime Minister and enjoyed unfettered access to almost every part of the palace. His web of contacts spread far and wide across the empire. Worse still, he had the ear of the Queen.

Ali thought rapidly. “It makes sense. Not only is he powerful, but he’s looking for a noble bride. Perhaps he has his sights set on Rhia. Certainly he has made no secret of his admiration for her. But he’s old, and—” He stopped, aware that the Grand Duke of Baluq was older than Lord Pyrris. “Our mother the Queen would never countenance the match.”

“Perhaps that’s why he’s trying to ally the factions. The man who could broker peace between the Whites and the Reds could claim he deserved a princess as his prize.” Ippolit’s brow creased with concern. “Or we could be wrong. Pyrris might be plotting to seize the throne himself. If he forced a marriage with your sister, he would gain the right to rule by proxy.”

“No.” Ali’s lips were numb. Cold stole through him.

“We don’t know.” Ippolit curled him closer, sharing body heat. “That’s why I believe you’re in danger. Why I think you’d be safer in your quarters in the palace rather than out on the streets.”

“There’s something else.” This new information had set Ali’s head spinning. It was too cold up here, too dark, for him to make sense of anything. He kept talking, trying to patch together what he knew to make whole cloth. “Veranta spoke to me. She’s heard the rumours, too, but she thinks there could be someone else pulling the strings, someone outside of the factions—the Count of Nikotoli.”

Ippolit expelled a breath. “Nikotoli? He meets with Pyrris sometimes in the Terraced Gardens to play capture-castle,” he said, referencing a popular strategy game that had permanent tables set up in all the public parks, “but I’ve heard nothing that links them beyond that.”

“There must be something.” Ali shook his head, frustrated. “We have only suspicions and rumour. We need incontrovertible proof.”

“We’ll find it. I promise you.” Ippolit squeezed him gently.

It was only then that Ali realised something. “Pol. You still have your arm around me.”

Surprise flitted across Ippolit’s features, then he grinned. “You were cold,” he said. “Also…” he pulled Ali closer, lowering his voice to a wicked murmur, “I thought it best to bolster the illusion that we’re courtesan and client.”

A little thrill ran through Ali. He licked his lips. It was rather liberating, playing at being a courtesan. “If this was an ordinary night and I was an ordinary man, and you saw me plying my trade… Would you pay for my services?”

The grin faded. Ippolit stared, a look almost of pain on his face. “If you were ordinary…” His arm loosened around Ali’s waist as he shifted slightly. He fumbled the skin of apple brandy from his pocket and drank deeply. After, he wiped his hand across his mouth and stared down into the arena. Only then did he answer. “No. I wouldn’t pay. I… I don’t seek the company of courtesans.”

“Why not? 

“Why not?” The echo dropped from Ippolit’s lips as his grasp suddenly tightened. Hauled in close against Ippolit’s body, Ali thought dizzily how fierce he looked. How fierce and passionate and—

Oh. _Oh_.

They stared at one another, time spooling out. Nothing mattered but this strange, ardent silence between them, all-consuming, breathtaking…

A huge roar went up beneath them.

Blinking, Ippolit released Ali and looked down. The Greens were jubilant, hugging one another and punching the air. In the torchlit arena, a Green charioteer took his victory lap, waving to the crowd.

A smile spread. Ippolit turned back to Ali. “Come, Highness, let’s collect your winnings.”

*

“I’ve never handled real money before.” Ali stared in wonder at the shiny, glittering pile of silver coins he poured back and forth between his gloved hands. “It’s heavier than I expected. A little smellier, too.”

Ippolit chuckled, his expression one of amused indulgence. Turning back his coat, he took out his empty purse and handed it over. “Loath though I am to interrupt your avaricious gloating, Highness, but it would be best if you were to tuck your winnings out of sight. The streets are usually safe in this quarter, but if you continue to wave temptation about, someone may try to steal it.”

“You would protect me, would you not?” Ali looked up.

The smile faded. Ippolit stood still and tense. “You know I would.”

Ali felt his pulse in his throat. His hands tightened around the money. “What could we buy with this?”

“With twenty-six pieces of silver?” Ippolit started to walk, guiding their steps away from the hippodrome. “Let me see… You have the cost of the fare to the Sarengeth Isles, but only one-way. What else? Ah, you could buy one sleeve of a dusk fox-fur coat. Or ten lampreys, though you’d have to gut them yourself. Maybe you’d prefer thirty songbirds without their cages, or half an ell of flame silk from Sinta, or eighteen ferry-rides along the Straits. Three hundred and twenty spinning-tops, two dozen Kamarand roses, a week’s stay at the cheapest mud-bath hotel in Pamh. Or,” he said, grinning, “you could put it all on the Greens again at the next races.”

Ali laughed as he dropped the last coin into the purse. “I want to buy something.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Something to commemorate tonight.”

Ippolit took his arm as cheering and booing erupted behind them from the hippodrome. There were still several races to run, but neither of them had felt particularly inclined to stay after their little windfall. “We’ve left it too late, I’m afraid. Most stall-holders cease trading soon after the races start. None of them want to be caught up in the fights that tend to break out after they end.”

“Oh.”

“There are a few places still open,” Ippolit said, apparently attune to Ali’s disappointment. “They sell food the like of which you’ve never seen in the palace. Have you tried hyssop parfait with sesame nougat? Or semolina cake soaked in orange syrup?”

“Never.” Of course Ippolit knew of his sweet tooth. Both sounded delicious.

Ali quickened his pace as they entered a small square. Torches flickered above door lintels. Taverns draped with the colours of the factions stood at each corner, pot-boys washing down the tables outside ready for the influx of customers after the last race. Permanent stalls were built into the walls, and appetising smells drifted on the night air.

Ippolit led him to a dessert stall and engaged the owner in conversation. The man cast a dubious look at Ali and his orange veil, but it seemed that Ippolit was known and liked, and if Ippolit vouched for him, then all was well. When he was beckoned forward and bade to choose his treats, Ali selected the sweets Ippolit had mentioned as well as a couple of pistachio cylinders soaked in honey.

The price came to less than one silver piece.

They carried their bounty into the rose garden at the foot of the First Hill. With only the moon to light their way, they walked the twisting path to a viewpoint overlooking the Straits. Night birds called to one another from the trees; the scent of warm earth and pine lingered.

Ali pinned back his veil, enjoying the caress of the breeze against his face. In the shadow of the palace walls, they sat on a bench and talked as they shared the snacks, the pistachio cylinders first, then taking it in turns to dip a flimsy wooden spoon into the parfait and crunching the nougat. Half of the semolina cake rolled from its paper packet and fell to the ground, crumbly and sodden with syrup.

“Your gloves,” Ippolit said, hesitating only slightly. “It would be better if…” He gathered up a mound of cake crumbs, pressing them together into a ball. Then, his fingers sticky with orange syrup, he held it to Ali’s mouth.

A bolt of desire shook Ali. Holding Ippolit’s gaze, he leaned forward and accepted the morsel between his lips. He chewed, tasting an intense sharp tang from the citrus, and then a soothing sweetness. When he’d finished, he ran his tongue over his lips. “It’s good.”

Ippolit’s gaze hadn’t strayed from his mouth. “Sometimes simple pleasures are the best.”

“Yes.” Awareness held him still. Ali could hear his pulse thudding in his ears. “May I have some more?”

In silence, Ippolit fed him another piece, then another.

“You should eat some, too. Before it’s all gone.”

Ippolit nodded, turning away slightly to scrape the last of the crumbs from the packet. He ate quickly, the syrup oozing.

“Pol. You have— Let me…” Ali put a finger in his mouth to moisten the tip of his silk glove, then rubbed at a smudge of syrup on Ippolit’s chin.

It was as if lightning arced between them, leaving tension crackling in its wake.

Ippolit caught at his wrist, thumb resting over Ali’s pulse-point. The darkness softened. A warm breeze blew, rustling the trees, carrying the fragrance of roses and the cooing of doves.

Silence built. It didn’t feel awkward. It felt full of meaning. Of delicious, tantalising anticipation.

Ali couldn’t wait any longer. With a hungry sound, he moved in close, one hand reaching up to touch Ippolit’s face, palm to cheek, fingers brushing over his ear, into his hair. It wasn’t enough to touch; Ali needed to taste. He angled his head, wanting to get even closer, but Ippolit was there before him.

They kissed, and it was so gentle it made Ali’s heart soar. He nipped at the tantalising swell of Ippolit’s lower lip, flicked his tongue along the seam of Ippolit’s mouth, until Ippolit opened to him with a purr of appreciation.

The kiss deepened. Ali framed Ippolit’s face with silk-clad hands. His breathing stuttered, harsh and ragged. His heartbeat pounded, as fast as galloping horses around the hippodrome. He closed his eyes, felt his lashes tickle against Ippolit’s face.

Ippolit was warm and delicious, his mouth sweet with orange syrup and the fire of apple brandy. Ali pressed closer and the world slipped away. He was anchored only by their kisses, only by this single glorious connection.

At length they broke apart and sat for a while, just holding one another.

When he raised his head, Ippolit’s eyes were black as night and hot with longing. “Ali,” he said, voice low and rough. “Time to go home.”

Ali’s heart skipped a beat at the use of the pet name. “Very well. But can we go the long way?”

Ippolit’s smile brightened the darkness. “We can indeed.”

*

Ali paced back and forth, too agitated to sit in the window seat and enjoy the sight of his garden in the late afternoon. He cast a glance at the gilded timepiece on the dressing table. Why did the hands move so slowly? What was keeping Ippolit? Surely it had been more than half an hour since he’d sent word to his chamberlain that he needed him?

Thank the Goddess that Katal was attending to his duties elsewhere. Ali didn’t think he could stomach the man’s acid remarks. His nerves were already on edge. He forced himself to pause at the window, open the screen, and look out; to breathe the fragrance of sun-warmed flowers and to notice the bees buzzing about the trellised roses. Water flowed through tiled channels, pooling in basins before babbling on its way to a succession of playful fountains and miniature waterfalls. His design, his whim. A pretty piece of nothing, just like him.

The anger and disappointment he’d been holding back threatened to overwhelm him. Ali grabbed a cushion and hurled it onto the bed.

At that moment, the door opened and Ippolit slipped inside. “Your Highness.”

“Pol!” Ali took a couple of rapid steps towards him, then stopped. He didn’t want sympathy and caresses. He wanted an equal who would listen to him, actually listen to what he had to say rather than simply dismiss him.

Ippolit pushed the door to and came further into the bedchamber. Dressed in breeches and a short, dark green jacket buttoned to the throat, he looked like a commoner. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He seemed a little short of breath.

“I was in the Terraced Gardens when I received your summons, Highness. I’ve been watching Lord Pyrris for most of the day. A message came for him earlier this morning, but whatever the note contained, he did not act on it.” He paused to rake his hand through his hair, pushing the unruly strands from his eyes. “On my way here I was told you’d sought an audience with the Consort.”

“Father wasn’t alone.” Bitterness edged the words. “Crown Prince Thanneus was there before me. I interrupted their meeting.”

“I thought you wanted more proof before you went to the Consort.”

“I did,” Ali said, stung by the reminder, “but then I realised—in five days it’s the Festival of the Sea. What better time for Nikotoli and Pyrris to launch their coup? My mother and father will both be on the royal barque, along with Veranta as the Crown Princess. Rhia and I will, as usual, stay ashore as part of the ritual. What if Vee’s suspicions about Nikotoli are correct? What if he has warships disguised as merchantmen? Our entire fleet will be on the Straits that day, decked with pennants and flowers, not guns! You know how it is, all our allies are welcome to send representatives. The Straits will be full of ships. Who is to know which belong to friends and which to enemies?”

Ippolit’s expression was sombre, thoughtful. “Did you tell your father this?”

The anger ran out of him. Ali sat on the end of the bed, drained. “Yes. I didn’t want to say it in front of Thanneus, and I didn’t tell him it was his own wife who’d raised the doubts in my mind, but Father knew. And I think Thanneus could probably guess, too.” An aching sadness rose in his throat. “After all, I’m not supposed to know anything of politics apart from the correct procedure with which to convene a newly-elected Council or which gifts are suitable for a foreign dignitary…”

After a moment Ippolit went to the window. He looked out briefly, then perched on the seat, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “What did the Consort say?”

Ali drew a deep breath. “That I had made a very serious accusation against a senior member of an allied state. That I was fortunate that I’d spoken only in front of him and Thanneus, for as we were family, my rash words would be forgiven. And then,” remembered humiliation and anger rushed heat to his cheeks, “he invited Thanneus to respond, and he _smiled_ at him, as if he would believe anything Thanneus said over anything I would say!”

“Highness.” Ippolit clasped Ali’s hands, forcing them to unclench. He glanced down, vaguely surprised that he was still wearing the three layers of gloves required to attend a formal meeting with the Consort. Delicate silver mesh woven with sapphires overlaid the customary pairs of kidskin and silk.

“Your father is a diplomat,” Ippolit continued. “He would never act without taking into account information gathered from all sides. I know it makes him seem cold, but—”

Ali pushed him away. “Thanneus assured me that Nikotoli was innocent. I said, in which case the count would be happy to allay my suspicions, wouldn’t he, but Thanneus smiled and said regretfully he could not, because Nikotoli had been called to the bedside of his betrothed, who had been taken ill in the Convent of Peace.”

Ippolit stirred, an uneasy look in his eyes. “The convent lies on the road north. And yet I saw Nikotoli this morning, heading west. Along the coast,” he added, though it went without saying.

“What time did the messenger attend Pyrris?”

“Shortly after Nikotoli departed. I was on my way to the Terraced Garden when I saw the count hurrying along the western road. Not long after, just as I’d found a spot where I could observe Pyrris without being seen, the messenger came.”

They stared at each other. Ali plucked at his robes then smoothed the silk, trying to put his thoughts in order. “We don’t know that the messenger was sent by Nikotoli. And yet… If only we knew more!” He regretted blundering into the Consort’s meeting. If only he’d waited, gathered more intelligence, he’d have been able to present it to his father calmly and intelligently. Instead he’d thrown around accusations and demands and had been petted by his father and brother-in-law as if he were a fractious child.

“I can’t believe Thanneus is involved in this,” Ali muttered. “He loves my sister. He would not—” Abruptly he got to his feet, too restless to sit still. “What else have you discovered? Tell me, Pol. Anything. Something new I can take to my father, to make him listen—”

It was then that he heard it, a single betraying creak from the nightingale floor. He turned in time to see Katal slide through the partially closed door. Katal, with violence in his eyes and a blade in his hand. Katal, springing towards him, the dagger glinting, the point wickedly sharp and aimed right for his heart.

“No!”

Ippolit flung himself forward. Ali wanted to run, but his limbs felt leaden and shock swarmed through his head. He was still shaping Katal’s name in stunned question when he was knocked off his feet and sent sprawling.

His wits returned when he hit the floor. Ali pushed himself up, fury giving him strength. He hadn’t anticipated a betrayal in the heart of the palace. Hadn’t suspected that someone close to him might wish him harm. “Katal!”

“Highness! Run!” Ippolit grappled with Katal, but the servant seemed possessed of a wild strength. Laughing manically, Katal lunged again and again with the dagger, trying to strike at Ali. When Ippolit continued to hold him off, Katal changed tack, plunging the knife into Ippolit’s chest.

Blood gushed, a dark stain on the green jacket, spreading with terrifying speed.

“No. No. Pol!” Ali darted forward as Ippolit staggered.

“Back,” Ippolit snarled. “Get back.” He tried to push Ali away with one bloodied hand, then, shouting a challenge, he put his head down and charged at Katal.

The knife glittered. The sickening sound of tearing flesh filled the room, undercut by harsh breaths and Katal’s savage laughter. Ippolit fought back, but he was weakening. With a final effort, he headbutted Katal beneath the chin. The servant’s head snapped back and the dagger dropped from his hand.

Jolted out of his shock, Ali grabbed the knife and hurled it out of the window. Filled with blind rage, he launched himself at Katal, punching, kicking, gouging at the man’s face, raising deep welts with his sapphire-studded gloves, yelling until he was hoarse.

Katal slumped against the dressing table. Unwilling to waste more time on him, Ali turned to Ippolit.

His chamberlain lay on the floor, blood running and pooling.

“No.” It was a whisper. A plea. “No!” Ali dropped to his knees as the palace guards, roused by the noise, burst into the room.

“Your house will fall!” Katal stirred, trying to right himself as the guards surrounded him. “Lord Pyrris will be king! Long live the king! Long live—”

Whirling to his feet, Ali punched him. Katal wheezed, then fell silent.

The guards dragged the traitorous wretch away. The nightingale floor squealed as courtiers and servants gathered outside. The buzz of conversation grew louder. Crown Prince Thanneus was there, kneeling beside Ali, urging him to come away, but Ali only had eyes for his beloved.

“Ali.” Ippolit smiled up at him. “Are you safe?”

How pale he looked, how fragile. Ali put his hands either side of Ippolit’s head and leaned close, blocking out the noise and confusion around them. “Yes. Quite safe. Thank you.”

“You’re crying.” Wonder in Ippolit’s eyes, in his tone.

“I never cry.” Except for the day he’d been separated from Ippolit to begin the Cycle of Wisdom. He’d cried then, certain he couldn’t bear the loss. He’d been wrong, but this time—ah, this time was different.

Ali curled his hands into fists. The silver-sapphire gloves scraped on the floor. Ippolit’s blood coated the precious metal, clung to the jewels, soaked into the kidskin and silk. He knelt up and began unbuttoning the jacket, yanking it open so he could press both hands over the wound in Ippolit’s chest. “Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me!”

Ippolit coughed. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. With an effort he turned his head, trying to fix his gaze on Ali even as his eyes began to glaze. “Is that a command?”

“Yes, damn you, it is a royal command! You must not leave me! I forbid it!”

Thanneus took hold of Ali’s arm. “A physician has been summoned. Come away, brother. You can do no more.”

The words rang through Ali’s head, simple and brutal, and then a sense of peace, of unutterable rightness, filled him. He could do more. He _could_.

He took off the silver-sapphire gloves. Peeled off the kidskin gloves. Threw aside the silk gloves. And then, to a shocked chorus of protest, he put his hands on Ippolit.

*

Though the Touch was immensely powerful, it could not work miracles. That one single fact had been drummed into Ali throughout the Cycle of Wisdom. The recipient of the Touch had to be ready to receive it. He or she had to want to live.

Not only was Ippolit young and strong, but he had a very good reason to live.

Ali had spent every hour of the past three days at Ippolit’s bedside in a well-guarded private room of the palace infirmary. The Queen’s own physician was on call, and though he was offered help with the patient, Ali preferred to tend Ippolit himself. 

After all, it was he who had cured Ippolit. It was only right that he should nurse him throughout his recovery.

A faint sea breeze curled in through the windows to lighten the scent of healing herbs. Sparrows cheeped, and a bee bumbled against the wooden screen before it took itself off in search of nectar.

Ali lifted a thick, leather-bound volume from the pile beside the bed. On special loan from the palace library, the book’s title was stamped in gold along the spine: _Codices of the Thalsians, Book One_. He opened it and began to read chapter twelve aloud.

Ippolit tried to burrow beneath a pillow. Failing, he glowered at Ali. “Is this meant to be a soporific or a stimulant?”

“Well, Pol, you’re supposed to be resting.” Ali closed the volume and returned it to the bedside table. “If you continue to recover at this rate, soon I’ll be able to read you a very special text.”

A heartfelt groan filled the room. “Not the Legislation of the Ten!”

Ali laughed and leaned closer. “How about a rather salacious volume taken from a private library on Meklos?”

“You’ve got it?” Ippolit stared at him. “How did you make Commander Bevik hand it over?”

“I _am_ a prince, you know.”

“So you are.” With an affectionate smile, Ippolit reached for his hand.

Ali caught his breath, looking down at their joined hands. He didn’t think he would ever grow bored of touching skin on skin. There were still little things he was learning: The roughening of hair on Ippolit’s chest and below his navel, the differing textures of his skin, smooth, dry, soft, hard, hot. Oh, he could hardly wait until the physician released Ippolit from the infirmary! He’d got it all planned. Days of touching, caressing, stroking; days of exploring, mapping ticklish places and sensitive zones, trailing fingertips over naked flesh, a glorious feast of sensual delight.

The sound of marching feet in the corridor outside had them disentangling their fingers. The door was thrown wide, and after a brief inspection by one of the royal guards, Queen Ereminia and her Consort entered the room.

“Alistronis. Ippolit. No need to get up.” His mother had apparently spoken without irony. She inclined her head, the sunlight sparkling on the jewels woven into her hair, setting gleams to dance over the heavy silk of her purple gown. “We apologise for keeping you in ignorance these last few days. I gave the guards strict instructions not to speak to you about the events unfolding, not to spare you the unpleasantness, but because I wanted to be the one to do it.”

Ali, who had stood the moment his mother had swept in, resorted to protocol. “Would you care to sit down, Your Majesty?”

She nodded. He drew up a chair, but she remained on her feet.

“You must have a dozen questions.” The Queen settled her gaze on him. “You will need to appoint a new Master of the Wardrobe. Katal has been executed. He confessed that Lord Pyrris had bribed him to keep watch over you. During the Festival of the Sea, in the confusion after the royal barque had been sunk, he was to have assassinated you. When he overheard you talking with Ippolit about your suspicions, he decided to act at once rather than to risk the plan going awry.”

“If the plan had succeeded, Rhia would have been the only surviving member of the royal family. She’d have been alone and vulnerable to Pyrris’s designs.” Ali sank back into his seat. It gave him no pleasure to know he’d been right to suspect Pyrris’s treachery.

“Quite so.” His mother’s lips tightened, and Ali recalled that she had trusted the Lord of the Treasury. “It seems that Pyrris approached the Count of Nikotoli months ago, promising him riches and high position if he would lend military support. Nikotoli thought nothing of betraying his liege lord… Yes,” the Queen added, “Thanneus is completely innocent in the matter. He is devastated that his closest friend plotted to do us harm. In retaliation he stripped Nikotoli of his title, declared his lands forfeit, and sentenced him to death by public hanging. It should have taken place yesterday, but somehow a vial of poison was smuggled to Nikotoli in prison, and he took his own life.”

Ali searched for something appropriate to say, but could find nothing. He reached for Ippolit again, curving a palm over his hand.

“The last few days have been rather busy, as you might imagine,” the Queen said drily. “As I said, that is the only reason for my neglect of you.” She looked at Ali, then at Ippolit. “Both of you.”

She finally sat, her skirts whooshing out around her. The Consort lay a hand on her shoulder, catching a curl of her hair and twining it around his finger. The Queen’s mask slipped, and Ali saw the face of his mother.

“I was terrified.” Her eyes seemed huge, and her voice was raw. “When I heard what had happened to you, I was so afraid. I wanted to tear that man apart with my bare hands. If he’d succeeded— If you’d been hurt…” A fierce expression crossed her face. She lowered her head for a moment, then looked at Ippolit. “You saved my son’s life. For that, you will ever have my gratitude.”

Blushing, Ippolit mumbled a response.

Her regal façade back in place, the Queen continued, “The remainder of the rebels have been rounded up and dealt with as necessary. It has only been a few days, and yet the alliances between the Reds and Whites are already crumbling. Deals are being repudiated as old enmities flare. However, there is the curious case of Lady Desdia and Lord Lhakon… It seems they fell in love. Tomorrow, they will be married.” A brief smile warmed her features. “Perhaps there is hope, after all.”

Ippolit chuckled. “Who could resist a love story?”

“Who indeed.” Her eyebrows arched. “Alas, the Grand Duke of Baluq will not be enjoying similar happiness. He confessed that he had agreed to renounce Rhia in exchange for the elephants from the Royal Menagerie once Pyrris had seized the throne. Why that old fool would prefer a herd of elephants to our daughter, I cannot fathom. But in truth, I was glad to send the man back to his ridiculous little duchy. I made a mistake in choosing him as Rhia’s husband. I will not do so again.”

She fell silent, regarding first Ali, then Ippolit. “Now, what shall we do with you two? I confess I haven’t been able to give it much thought—”

The Consort snorted.

“—but,” the Queen said, ignoring the unspoken comment, “I believe the best thing would be to promote Ippolit to the fourth rank, effective immediately.” She tipped her head towards her husband. “What do you think, dear?”

“Whatever you think best, Minia,” the Consort agreed, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes.” She nodded, apparently satisfied. “That will do. Fourth rank. But he cannot be a chamberlain anymore. That simply isn’t on. What can he be instead?”

“A consort,” suggested the Consort.

The Queen sniffed. “Yes. That would be appropriate. Now Alistronis no longer has the Touch…”

Ippolit shoved himself upright against the pillows. “He’s still important, Your Majesty! Still worthy of your respect and admiration! He has all that learning, all the wisdom of the eighty-nine books of the Codices of the Thalsians and the Legislation of the Ten and all those other things he studied. He should be a valued member of your government. He is brave and curious and clever and caring, and I will be proud to be his consort because I love him!”

Ali stared. “You do?”

“Oh Ali, of course I do.” Temper fading as quickly as it had flared, Ippolit turned to him with a blazing smile. “I’ve loved you for years, but you were always out of reach.”

“Not any more.” Ali took both of Ippolit’s hands in his, squeezing tight. “Not any more, my love.”

“Yes. Well. Splendid.” While the Queen seemed perturbed by the display of affection, Ali’s father continued to smile at them both. “Alistronis, your, ah, consort is quite right. Your understanding of the laws will be a great asset to the empire.” She got to her feet, smoothing down her gown as she made ready to depart. “You see, I intend to send you on a diplomatic mission to Nwb.”

“Nwb?”

“Indeed.” His mother paused at the door, looking back. She smiled. “Lord Ippolit will of course be accompanying you.”

In a daze, Ali looked between his parents. “What’s in Nwb?”

Amusement gleamed in the Queen’s eyes. “The possibility of a new bridegroom for Rhia. Hopefully one more to her liking this time. I’m told Lord Achege is very handsome and enjoys dancing.”

“Dancing,” Ippolit muttered as the door closed behind the Queen and Consort to leave them alone. “Is that all it takes to win the heart of a princess?”

“I believe other considerations are taken into account.” Ali lifted Ippolit’s hand, rejoicing in the simple pleasure of touch. “Which is a good thing, for you’re terrible at dancing… and yet you won the heart of a prince.”

“My prince,” Ippolit said with a smile, drawing him down for a kiss. “My Ali.”


End file.
